


The Fish's Tail

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Short One Shot, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5647018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Lyanna has grabbed onto him, fingers digging into his robes. “Don’t kill him. If you love me, don’t kill him.”</p>
  <p>“His words are treason,” he speaks back to her slowly. “Better a clean death on the battlefield than one at the hands of my father.”</p>
</blockquote>There is always a tragedy waiting.
            </blockquote>





	The Fish's Tail

 

 

 

 

Her fingers press tighter against the wooden frame, nails digging into the thin layer of paint, leaving crescent moons as testament. Fear fills every nook and cranny of her being and she instinctively takes a step backwards, as if mere distance will save her.

The rider approaches her cautiously, holding a hand up, as if to tell her he will not do her no harm. But what trust can there be between her and a stranger? Yet there is nowhere to go. She has but very few options available to her.

“Lady Stark, you should perhaps leave that shield there,” he advises. At the surprised look on her face, he inclines his head a bit to the side. “Come, my lady, it is best you leave.” His intentions, whatever they are, while not obviously malicious, shall need to be assessed.

Thus it is a refusal that Lyanna offeres. “I cannot,” she finds herself saying, before he can ask a second time. “Your Grace knows I cannot.” She clutches the shield tighter, the paint cracked, small flakes falling off.

What goes unsaid is clear enough. The Prince dismounts and walks towards her. Lyanna fights to hold the shield up. Her arms are growing tired under its constant weight. But even if the shield provides her with scant protection, it is better than nothing.

“My comrades will be returning soon, Lady Stark. I can only help if you are not seen.” He holds his hand out, presumably to signal that she should pass the burden of the shield to him. Lyanna draws back, her back hitting the tall tree behind her. “I will keep this one secret for you, my lady.”

An offer like of which she has yet to hear before. Usually, people are more willing to bare secrets than to keep them. Her brow furrow in confusion, lips parting a smidge as she prepares to question his motives. Yet, as she raises her eyes to his, she can see no treachery in there, nothing aside from the same melancholy that he’s been pouring into his song, that song which had made her weep. It is the same melancholy that haunts her. A tiny ghost, discreet, quiet, but ever constant company to those who know it best.

“A promise costly to keep, Your Grace,” she notes, not without a hint of fear. “The King would have the knight’s head.” And limbs and bones and every bit of flesh.

“The head is the least of the King’s worries,” comes the terse, but undeniably amusing in its bleakness, answer. “Is it not better for the knight to disappear?”

Lyanna pushes the shield towards him in the next moment. “And he will stay gone?” Buried in memory, shrouded in mystery and far, far from the light of fact.

“Forever.” The word pierces through her, much like an arrow, embedding itself into her mind. He takes the shield into his own hands. The weight of it seemed negligible to him. “They will be coming soon. Return; I shall ride further.”

He climbs back atop his mount, strapping the shield to his back, digging his heels in its flanks. The beast shoots forward and Lyanna watches him disappear further and further away, the shield clinging to his back. The laughing weirwood face glances back at her with its strange red eyes full of promise. But what does that promise entail? Lyanna shivers and wraps her arms around herself.

She waits a few more moments before starting to make her way back. Dread still clings to her, a reminder that thoughtless actions often have dire consequences. Though she’s avoided maiming, death and other unpleasant punishments, Lyanna is well aware that she has given something to the Prince which he might use whenever he pleases.

He has promised he would not, that the knight would disappear. Lyanna wonders if he thinks her to be the one behind the helmet. The thought is amusing. If he had voiced it, she might have been tempted to correct him. As he hasn’t, she might as well pretend lack of knowledge.

It is best to just keep silent upon such matters.     

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

She runs after him, barefoot and dishevelled, skirts raised indecently high. “Rhaegar, please.” Her voice tugs at his heartstrings. “Rhaegar, he is my brother.” He can hear the thickness of it, and wonders if she cries. He doesn’t dare look back. “Rhaegar!”

What he doesn’t expect is for her to tackle him, right there, in the middle of the hallway, Elia somewhere at the other end, holding Aegon to her bosom. But she does and for a moment he loses his footing, sending both of them skidding towards the wall. His shoulder does not thank him.

Lyanna has grabbed onto him, fingers digging into his robes. “Don’t kill him. If you love me, don’t kill him.”

“His words are treason,” he speaks back to her slowly. “Better a clean death on the battlefield than one at the hands of my father.”

She does understand. Lyanna truly does. She has learned since coming to this wretched place that the King is not so much a king as he is a madman with a crown. But still, he holds the power. “I am begging you.” Yet Brandon is her brother. Her oldest brother who is foolish and brave and hers; he is hers. “He is my blood.” Her hand tugs at his, pressing it against her flat stomach, “And our child’s blood as well.”

Her eyes are begging him and, damn it all, he does want to listen. “I make no promises.” He presses a kiss to her forehead and pushes her away before she says anything more that might shake his conviction. And then he is trying to find something that will save them all.

He walks away and forces himself not to look back until he’s reached Elia. His wife‘s dark gaze is trained on the she-wolf, but she speaks to him. “Your armour is ready, Your Grace.” Rhaegar doesn’t wonder at the coldness in her voice. She is not likely to forgive him this, but Elia, as always, endures.

He shouldn’t be asking this of her. Truly, he should not. For it must feel a keener blow to her. Yet he must. “Elia, take care of her.” She doesn’t nod. She doesn’t move. Rhaegar dares just a glance towards Lyanna and wonders, briefly, if Elia will listen to this request. Her troubled face nearly undoes him.

But he cannot stay. Not even for her. Rhaegar nods towards his wife and kisses the top of Aegon’s head. There is nothing left to say at this point. Elia draws away from him and walks towards Lyanna. The Prince does not remain in their presence any longer. He must away.

In the courtyard Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell are already waiting. The King’s orders ( _Kill the insolent whelp. How dare he threaten my heir?_ ) are still ringing in his ears. Somehow he must save Brandon Stark’s life. He must and not only for Lyanna. House Stark is unlikely to aid him if he should kill their heir. Rhaegar sees Ser Jaime from the corner of his eye and beckons the forth.

“Your Grace, take me with you,” the boy says. It’s as if he seeks to prove himself. Rhaegar curses his father’s choice once more. Jaime is skilled. But he is just a child. “I can fight.”

“No one doubts that,” he hears himself saying. “But I would ask something more important from you on this day than to fight. I ask you to protect those who remain here.” He cannot say this in a more direct manner. “Do you understand what I am asking?”

The child doesn’t. But surely Ser Darry and Prince Lewyn do. The second may be counted on to protect his niece. And Ser Darry will likely understand better than Jaime Lannister what is being asked of him. “Rely my orders to your sworn brothers.”

He mounts his steed and pats the beast’s neck with a deft hand. “Easy, easy,” he whispers to the animal whose hooves have begun beating at pliant earth. The tension cannot be helping.

“Your Grace,” Arthur calls his attention away from a retreating Jaime, “what do you plan to do? Brandon Stark does not look as if he might listen to words.”

“That is because he shan’t. I will fight him, ser, as I must.” Though the thoughts doesn’t sit well with him. Rhaegar doesn’t fear the younger man. But he resents the actions of Lyanna’s brother all the same.

“Then we should away, Your Grace,” Whent advises. “There’s little sense in putting this nasty piece of business off any longer.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Brandon Stark looks fairly ready to jump at him as soon as he dismounts. But that will not do. Rhaegar holds one hand up. “Brandon Stark, I do not wish to fight you,” he says, speaking over the sound of chainmail rattling and horses snorting. “Give up now and you may keep your life.”

Assured of himself in a way only a fool could possibly be, Brandon laughs at the offer. “The great Prince of Dragonstone is craven, is he? I will fight you and I will mount your head upon a spike for what you’ve done to my sister.”

He toys with the idea of letting the Stark heir know exactly in what fashion his sister begged him to take her away at the tourney. But decided against it. Better that the fool believes what he wills. It will give him the strength and conviction he needs to survive. “You do not forfeit then?”

Brandon spits at his feet viciously, “Nay. Shall we fight, or do we sit here until the dusk arrives?”

There is nothing more to be done. Rhaegar mounts his horse once again and draws a bit away. He signals for the Kingsguards that have joined him to pull away and leave them space to fight. Brandon’s companions have formed a semicircle behind him. Rhaegar watches as the bold wolf climbs his own mount and draws out a fine sword. ‘Tis not Valyrian steel, but ‘tis good steel.

He has competed against Brandon in the joust. Rhaegar’s memory serves him well, at least well enough to remember that this particular Stark is hot-headed, impulsive and has injured his left side as he fell off his horse. Likely his balance will still be off. He almost wishes the honourable one had come. With that one, he might have stood a chance at discussing the matters before it came to blows. That one might have considered his words before yelling out for the head of the King’s son.

It takes a moment for them to be ready. There is no nod, no outward sign. Rhaegar tenses, heels digging into the flanks of his horse and the beast takes flight, galloping towards his enemy. Brandon wields a sword. The attacks he can deliver are of a closer range, so Rhaegar should have another advantage in that.

The sound of metal scarping against metal pierces the heavens as the blades meet. There is a great deal of force behind Brandon’s attack, enough of it to momentarily upset Rhaegar’s balance. Sensing the opportunity the Northerner makes to strike his blade to the Prince’s shoulder. Luckily for him, however, Rhaegar manages to deflect the blow and push back into the opponent.

They continue through with a series of like attacks, neither managing to gain the upper hand for some time. Brandon is more than stubborn, but Rhaegar is determined to win. The prophecy is somewhere at the back of his mind in all this. How strange it is that until not too long ago his motivation had been tied to ancient words. Now the very same motivation lies at the feet of a living, breathing creature who has turned from means into purpose without him having realised it.

The breakthrough comes when he least expects it. Rhaegar’s horse takes a blow to one hind leg and Brandon prepares to launch another attack. Only he forgets, for the briefest of moments, to watch his opponent. The reason will likely never be known to him or any other man but Brandon. And Rhaegar uses that to his full advantage. Bringing his lance down, he embeds it into armour and possibly flesh. The cut is not lethal. But it must hurt and it will surely slow Brandon down. The heir of Winterfell lets out a cry of rage and pain. He holds his sword out and makes to cut the Prince, but Rhaegar is quicker in this. He knocks the weapon out of the way and jumps off his own horse, arms wrapping around his opponent to take him down as well.

It works. They roll together to the ground, one trashing, the other holding. When they finally stop, blood is pouring out of Brandon’s cut and the man’s sword has actually managed to find a weakness in the Prince’s armour and injure his leg. Rhaegar catches the man’s head between his hands and knocks it violently to the ground a few times until Brandon stops moving about.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

She is still weeping when he returns limping, his lady wife by his side. Rhaegar looks at the woman-child and this fear pierces his chest bereft of plate of armour. He should comfort her, but these tears leave him ill at ease and slightly sick to his stomach.

“Enough, my lady,” he manages gently, hand reaching out for her instinctively.

But she she-wolf is quick and in her grief, she deals him far harsher treatment than he would have expected. The sudden weight of her pressing into him leaves his body careering backwards. And then she’s kicking at him with vicious little fists, uncaring of where her hits land. His led pulses with pain, the ache a thorny whip dragging across his skin.

Elia is not far behind, her hands grabbing at the other woman’s shoulders, pulling her away with a gentleness that Rhaegar does not understand. The curious matter is that once she’s no longer latching onto him, the she-wolf is reduced to a blubbering mess.

“Leave us, lady wife,” Rhaegar requests of the woman who is still so very quiet. Silent as a grave.

The cold look in her eyes chills him, but he maintains the request until her slippered feet are no longer heard on the creaking floors.

“You promised,” the accusation flies towards with the accuracy of an arrow.

“I promised to try,” he corrects.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The rope swings gently with the heavy weight, silk twisting.

Rhaegar’s eyes are upon the slightly elevated feet, toes peeking from behind the hem of a dark curtain.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Lord Stark brushes a hand against the Lysene curls a young Silent Sister has twisted at the request of the Prince. “If you had only waited,” the man says against the porcelain skin of the dead’s cheek.

They give him the body, to bear back North, wrapped in precious silks and glittering gems. But the bride price has already been paid.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

A vessel sails to Pentos.

 

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Fish And Its Tail](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10701552) by [solitariusvirtus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus)




End file.
